


amnesty

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 03:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18460424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: Jim keeps ending up in bed with Mycroft at weddings





	amnesty

**Author's Note:**

> From this harlequin prompt thingamajig because it made me laugh:  
> http://www.seasip.info/Misc/ucrpg.html  
> 343) In Room 732: Bridesmaid with Benefits - Amy Andrews  
> Jim Moriarty’s one rule is: not to sleep with Mycroft Holmes. Yes, he’s hot, but falling into bed with him after every wedding must stop! But when Jim sees a new side to him, he decides that some rules are made to be broken!

Jim Moriarty truly isn’t one to drink away his sorrows. Number one, he’s learned the hard way he has a tendency to black out. Number two, Jim _always_ came out on top. He is unaccustomed to _failure._

 

Still, in a world full of idiots, it was only a matter of time before some goon fucked up so far beyond Jim’s projections that a plan went south. Pro: There was absolutely no way the theft would link back to Jim. Con: Now he was drinking by himself at a wedding where he _thought_ he was getting front-row seats to an epic breakup, but instead will get nothing. Except free champagne, sure, but what a paltry return on his invested time and planning!

 

Something piques his interest from the corner of his eye, and Jim turns to look.

 

There’s a tall man in a tux, hm, groom’s side, but not close. Government worker? Boring. But his pocket full of secrets - not so boring. He looks as sullen as Jim feels, nursing his own flute of champagne, bringing it to his lips countless times without taking a drink. Was he waiting for someone?

 

Well, too bad.

 

Jim downs his drink and places himself in the man’s path as soon as he takes a step.

 

“Dance with me,” Jim demands. The man - ooh he’s tall - looks down at him, down that funny, interesting nose of his, and Jim feels like laughing. He doesn’t remember what he says to persuade him, or if he needed to at all, but they’re soon twirling across the floor-

 

-and right into bed.

 

Jim is pleased with his decision and pleased that this mystery man’s pockets - which he is still keeping closely guarded - contains a hotel room key.

 

Hey, if he was going to attend the wedding of two strangers, he might as well have some fun with it, even if it wasn’t the kind of fun he had planned. Never let it be said that Jim Moriarty wasn’t one to improvise.

 

And he’s _obviously_ into Jim, practically gets the two of them onto the bed from the hotel door in record time. Getting their clothes off is a bit harder, seeing as they can’t quite keep their hands off each other. His trousers are gone and the man’s lost his jacket and the shirt’s hanging by one sleeve when he takes Jim’s face in his hands and kisses him long and hard. After that, Jim’s content to sit back and let him deal with the remaining articles of clothing - and one look from Jim and he seems more than happy to do so.

 

He likes Jim’s eyes, and his wicked smile, and Jim’s quite happy that that’s enough to communicate exactly what he wants. The man doesn’t seem big on words, which suits him just fine.

 

.

 

He’s gone when Jim blinks back into consciousness and peels himself off the bedspread. Actually the first thing he sees are the chocolate bonbons on the nightstand, which he must’ve taken out from the minibar. Cute.

 

Jim yawns and picks up the phone to call the front desk, hoping to get a name (so he can do a background check, obviously). He jots the info down on a notepad and decides to take a shower.

 

He swings by the security room afterwards with the help of a few well placed lies and frowns, disappointed for the second time in one day.

 

There’s no sign of his tall, quiet, mystery man. He scrubs through the footage quickly, wondering whether the man is just very good at avoiding cameras, or had a portion of the tapes wiped.

 

Both, it seems, as there is absolutely no footage of anything in the hallway leading up to the man’s hotel room. That can’t at all be a coincidence. Huh.

 

He’s paid in cash, left no discernable details about himself, and Jim’s info-hunt at the hotel is a dead end.

 

Later, back in his flat (well, one of them), Jim kicks up his feet and plugs the name into a few databases to do a cursory search. A photo would’ve helped with facial recognition matches, but the name will have to do.

 

He finds nothing. A handful of people with the same name, nicknames taken into account, but the closest resemblance to a match is definitely not him (he _could_ be hiding a wife and two sons, but the shape of the skull was all wrong. Jim would know. He’d just spent about two hours with his hands around it).

 

So he rolls his eyes and puts it out of his mind.

 

.

 

He only stays out of his mind for about a month.

 

Jim finds himself at another stranger’s wedding four Wednesdays down the road, and he’s there posing as someone’s colleague in order to create a fun alibi for a murder he’s advised on.

 

His piña colada nearly goes down the wrong pipe as he spots the man mid-slurp and ends up deer-in-headlights blinking. Oh dear, his coworker persona here was nothing like the man he’d last met, but he was already approaching, small smile playing along his lips like he was _glad_ to see Jim.

 

Jim returns the smile, not letting go of the straw between his lips, glancing down in a poor impression of being bashful.

 

He says something to him, but the booming reggae-electro-pop auditory nightmare pumping through the themed reception hall makes it hard to hear. Still, even without his lip-reading skills, Jim can tell what he’s trying to say.

 

“Let’s get out of here?” Jim yells back, sure his own words are drowned out too, so Jim takes his hand anyway, and leads him away from the cocktail table.

 

.

 

The kisses are slow this time, drawn out, as Jim practically peels the taste of rum and coconut off his tongue.

 

“Kissing hasn’t been this fun in _ages,”_ he says, pants, rather. Or at least he think he does; it’s a little hard to tell between the kisses he’s leaving in a trail down his body. Jim licks up from the hollow of his throat to his jawline, ending in teeth, and savors the salt of it. They should’ve brought limes! He wonders if there’s tequila in the room.

 

His one night stand, take two, returns in kind, leaving kisses over every inch of him and several bite marks in places he’s not sure he’s ever been bitten.

 

They doze, buzzing and floating and sore nonetheless, and Jim manages to snap a picture this time. It’s not a very good picture, horrible angle and lighting, but it’ll work well enough for facial recognition purposes, and Jim has no intention of embarrassing him - not this way, anyway - by posting it online.

 

The photo evidently rouses him, and Jim takes his chin in his hand and covers his mouth with his own in a long, loud kiss.

 

“Bye-bye,” he says, patting his cheek. “That was _fun.”_

 

.

 

Facial recognition turns up nothing until Jim punches in the password for the highest level of clearance that he has - and gets only one result: Mycroft Holmes.

 

 _“Fuck,”_ he says to himself, not particularly upset. Pro: This man was _dangerous,_ anyone who knew him by name should know as much, and he’d found Jim twice? This could only lead to fun and games. Con: If he’d already let his guard down _twice_ in his presence, perhaps he didn’t realize who Jim was? What was he, just some random hookup? Rude.

 

Jim weighs the odds of his next move and comes up with too many plays to be of use. Eventually, he decides to get involved with a foreign election Holmes seems to be trying to rig (tsk, naughty, naughty) and makes his presence known.

 

Fortune shines on him, as the shoe-in for president actually has a daughter engaged to minor royalty, and the wedding takes place right before election night. Talk about optimistic!

 

There’s no question Holmes will be in attendance for the vote count, but Jim takes a chance and crashes the wedding too.

 

He shows up as a distant cousin to the groom of minor royalty this time, and finds Holmes takings calls in the corner - last minute election plans, no doubt.

 

Jim plucks the phone out of his hand and hangs up.

 

“Here I thought fate had brought us together in all these weddings! A celebration of love - auspicious, isn’t it?” Jim greets him brightly. Then he gasps. “Only to find you’ve been all business. Or have you?”

 

Holmes frowns down at him (again! but it’s _serious_ this time) and Jim gives him that wicked smile he likes so much.

 

Understanding dawns a moment later, but he merely tucks away his phone.

 

“So I have you to thank for the last minute campaign kerfuffle, do I?” Holmes says, and it’s his voice this time, his _own_ voice. Jim’s not sure how he knows, but it sends shivers all over and he has half a mind to drag him into a room this minute.

 

“I hope you understand that in a country like this no amount of...disarray you cause will unseat the incumbent. It’s already clear who will become president,” Holmes says, a sort of chastisement in his voice. It makes Jim want to purr. He’s not sure who he likes better, the quiet, desperate lover, or this cold and calculating figure.

 

“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” Jim says, running a hand up his arm. “I was only playing.”

 

Holmes hesitates, at that, and Jim thinks he’s nearly got him. Instead he nods goodbye, and turns on his heel to leave.

 

Leaving Jim high and dry.

 

.

 

No matter. Jim has a note sent to Mycroft Holmes’s hotel room (under another pseudonym, of course, but even these fake names are so telling - who knew he had a favorite librettist?). It is an invitation.

 

Election night will be a _bash,_ and the wedding reception would pale in comparison. _This_ was the opulent event of the year, and of course Mycroft would be in attendance. Jim asks him to a sort of...results-viewing get together. A quiet bar away from the hubbub. Oh, he could send his congratulations by phone.

 

And Jim is _ever_ so pleased when he sets foot into the hotel bar to find Mycroft Holmes all prettied up, in a tux having just come from his requisite mingling with the politicians.

 

Jim doesn’t ask why he’s come or push his advantage. He just buys the man a drink and basks in how much of an upper hand he’s got, with the most powerful man of Great Britain hooked with just a look. Jim’s not stupid enough to think he’ll find any state secrets in some flash drive or notebook in a hidden pocket while the man snoozes, nor is he planning to coax more words than Holmes wants to give in the afterglow.

 

Still, it’s a thrill.

 

Sure he’s slept with the enemy before. He’s seduced agents sent after him, turned a few too, killed more though. This wasn’t exactly...that.

 

Jim doesn’t think too hard about it. They’re not about to put _words_ into defining the relationship. It wasn’t _that_ kind of fling.

 

How the two of them, filled to the brim with so much _confidential_ information, are able to make completely and utterly meaningless small talk for what feels like forever is what Jim considers an Olympic feat.

 

Finally, “Can I get you another drink?” Jim asks. “Upstairs.”

 

Dare he say it - Jim thinks he gets _butterflies_ when Mycroft Holmes says _“yes.”_

 

.

 

Upstairs is a complete surprise. Jim would’ve thought he’d be slammed against the door as soon as it closed behind him, the taller man letting loose all frustration with this little tramp as soon as they were away from view - hurling his own mistakes outward in privacy.

 

Instead, Holmes is soft, pliant, and lets him take the lead. He melts beautifully against him, luxuriates in his touch, and steals kisses so chaste you could almost call them shy.

 

Jim’s heart beats double-time, suddenly feeling exposed himself in the face of Holmes’s vulnerability.

 

Worse, he eats it up, devours this newfound side of Mycroft, and wonders what he’ll find next time _(next time?!),_ wonders what all these different sides Mycroft’s shown him adds up to be.

 

He nuzzles his face against Mycroft’s when they’re done, cuddled under the bedcovers. Then Mycroft moves to get up.

 

Jim looks up, mouth open, ready to ask him to stay, only to be interrupted.

 

“Don’t spoil it, Mr. Moriarty,” he says.

 

Jim frowns, pouts, and bounces back onto the bed while blowing air between his lips in the span of the next seconds following. Mycroft hardly looks bothered, so Jim adopts nonchalance as well.

 

But he can’t help but smile, smug, as Mycroft turns again before opening the door.

 

“Bye,” Jim says, dragging the syllable out all sing-song, waving his fingers as he does. Mycroft pulls himself together at that, and if his exit is a little hasty, well who’s going to say?

 

.

 

There are no weddings in the fall, and Jim thinks twice - literally, twice - about hitting up Mycroft Holmes the old fashioned way, ie: an assassination attempt on one of his less favored politicians.

 

Jim thinks better of it. Mycroft Holmes seems like the kind of man who likes tradition, and why mess with tradition? Tradition meant weddings, and the Prime Minister’s son was getting married early winter, right before people got into the swing of holiday things, in the society wedding of the year.

 

Jim is trying to decide whether to cozy up to the soon-to-be groom and surprise Mycroft as part of the wedding party itself, or show up as staff and see if he’d be up for a quick shag in the coat room when the news starts reporting that the police have solved a locked-room murder he’d consulted on and which had made the news a week prior, so bizarre the setup was.

 

The police with the help of a _consultant,_ the news report is saying, and Jim frowns at the name “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

He wonders if he should be miffed Mycroft didn’t mention family. Did he not want Jim to meet him? Tsk, it’d been a while since he was someone’s dirty little secret.

 

Inspiration strikes just as he’s musing on this fateful turn of events, and Jim quickly looks up the wedding’s planner.

 

.

 

Mycroft feels an arm loop around his as he steps into the church, but now is no time to cause a scene. Jim Moriarty smiles up at him and tells the assistant staffed at the entrance he is Mycroft’s plus-one. The petite guest-list taker nods and smiles and ushers them in with two ticks against her clipboard.

 

“Do I even need to ask?” Mycroft asks under his breath, nodding and greeting the people’s he’s really here to greet as they pass.

 

Jim supposes it’s a logical question. Now that they know who the other party is, it’d be a little silly to think this was still only about sex. Right?

 

“You know, I never used to like weddings,” Jim says, leaning his head against Mycroft’s shoulders. “Well - second thought - I still don’t. All this procession, but the entire room’s just waiting to get tipsy.”

 

Mycroft turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow in a decidedly disapproving look, and Jim grins.

 

Suddenly, it occurs to him - could he even make it through a wedding with Mycroft without dragging him into a room after?

 

The music starts, and Jim looks ahead, puzzled. The rest of the procession is exactly as expected (read: dull), so Jim tunes it out and considers his dilemma for a hot second. Then he decides that denying himself an enjoyable tryst after he’s suffered through an _entire wedding_ for the sole purpose of seeing Mycroft make that cute little confused face was not worth it.

 

He’s determined to confuse Mycroft _twice_ afterwards, this time.

 

.

 

Jim winks at Mycroft from the lineup of groomsmen and watches the man roll his eyes and doggedly ignore making eye-contact with him the rest of the ceremony.

 

It’s not like it makes a difference, Jim manages to pull him into a dance during the reception nearly straight away. He considered catching the bouquet for him too, but figured that was a bit overly calculated, even for him.

 

“Mr. Moriarty, this has _got_ to stop,” Mycroft hisses, between his teeth, as they spin and spin. Of course he’s nervous, at least three of his superiors in British intelligence are here!

 

But Jim bats his eyes at him and the protests die away soon enough.

 

Jim takes pity on him being under the watchful eye of codename Love, among others, so he slips away but not before he slips Mycroft a key. Now he doesn’t have to worry about being spotted together.

 

And how _flattering_ that none of the other agents have even given him a second glance, despite Jim being on display front and center all ceremony. Has Mycroft really not told them? He leaves the reception hall with a bounce in his step.

 

.

 

Jim lets Mycroft drape himself over him, head to toe, and drags a finger along his jaw.

 

“Am I your secret?” Jim asks, and he can’t help but laugh as he does.  

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. He’s _lying,_ Jim can tell. Jim’s surprised anyway, and something flares up in that cavity where he should have a heart and he can’t tell if he’s pleased or hurt. _“Yes.”_

 

That second affirmation shakes him more than he’d expected and he gropes blindly for a hand; he misses but grips into Mycroft with his fingers anyway.

 

.

 

The wedding not two weeks after that one is as close as they’ve ever come to a planned date. It’s no one special that’s getting married, and there isn’t any business either of them are conducting during the event.

 

Hell, they weren’t even invited.

 

Still, they show up, they drink, and they dance - they dance more than they’ve ever spent any of these weddings dancing, spinning in each other’s arms until the floor is nearly empty.

 

“Do you have a room?” Mycroft asks, mouth close to his.

 

Does he even need to _ask?_ Jim can’t nod fast enough.

 

.

 

Jim blinks awake when Mycroft shifts, and for a moment Jim resigns to having to wake up alone.

 

But no, Mycroft gets up and Jim hears the water run. He drifts a bit, and the next time he feels consciousness pushing in from the edges he is _warm_. There is an arm tucked around his shoulder and Jim squirms until he’s able to throw a leg over Mycroft’s and further ensnare him.

 

A puff of air blows a stray strand of hair across his forehead. Boo. Afterglow was no time for gloom.

 

“What are we even _doing,_ Jim?” Mycroft asks, so quiet he could be mistaken for asking himself.

 

“Ugh.” Jim scrunches up his face, and pats blindly at Mycroft’s chest, missing his face entirely. “No, no. Wedding parties are amnesty zones.”

 

He feels a barely-there rumble through Mycroft’s chest, a little laugh. Then nothing.

 

He gets a little nervous, waiting for an answer from Mycroft. Almost enough to crack an eye open, except no, it is warm, and safe, and he won’t budge for anything in the world.

 

“Alright,” Mycroft finally says. “Truce.”


End file.
